


anywhere but here

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Little remains at the camp after Crozier is taken, M/M, did i write this to make myself sad?, i mean yeah pretty much, mentions of death and veeeeery light hints of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: No Englishman's god walks the shale beside them, and the angels above have turned their backs on the poor and sinful, foolish enough to invade a land unwanted.We are gone.We are gone.





	anywhere but here

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I like pain, and I hope you do, too. Enjoy.

Little stands rooted to the ground, still as a statue, several paces from the camp. The noise of the men packing the sledges is a quake, cracking and crumbling his resolve, tremulous as it already is. There is no conversation among the men, just the repetitive thump of crates being loaded and tied. The wind picks up, billowing Little's coat and pushing strands of too-long hair into his face. It is mild today, well above freezing, and the sun beams down her rays of warmth with gentle, senseless cruelty.

He closes his eyes, imagines for a moment that he is somewhere other than the Arctic, perhaps a late spring morning on the coast of Dorset near his cousin's country home; he can imagine the weighty scent of a recent rain, mixed with the perfume of greenery, of flowers and trees; he almost hears the piercing cry of a gull flying inland from the sea.

Boots crunch on the shale behind him as someone approaches, and the wishful illusion shatters like delicate porcelain, the dust of it mixing with the coarse dry air and the crumbled rock underfoot.

Little dully wonders if his dreams of home will ever come true.

Le Vesconte’s tired voice informs him that the men are ready to leave.

Little turns his head, nods ever so slightly, unable to articulate everything on his mind. He had tried earlier with Henry and the remaining crew, and he failed to rally them then. What use would crying do now?

“I won't beg, Edward,” Le Vesconte says, each word withered and cracked; “but I wish you would come. Staying here will be your death.”

“I know,” answers Little, his words barely a murmur.

Le Vesconte sighs, the sound morphing into a groan and then a cough. “As admirable as dogged loyalty is, Crozier wouldn't want you to throw your life away. Not like this.”

Little stays silent, his sight blurring as he stares unblinking into the distance.

“You can't take on an entire camp of mutineers by yourself,” Le Vesconte reasons.

Edward turns to face Le Vesconte, too tired for any real anger to infuse his words. He cannot blame his fellow lieutenant or the rest of the men. Fear of the unknown keeps Edward from going forward—that and the slowly creeping horror that the Arctic has already claimed them all.

“I am staying not only for the captain but for our ill. We're men, not animals. I won't leave them to die like beasts.”

Le Vesconte pulls the rifle on his shoulder tighter, readjusts his hat before frowning and looking away.

“Fine. Do what you must.”

They bid one another farewell, both incapable of meeting the other’s eye. Edward observes as though removed from his body, a detached spectator, his dark silhouette a thin puncture along the never-ending gray of the horizon, a lonely sentinel for the exit of the sledges moving south, seeking refuge or rescue.

He stares until the group is small against the horizon when abrupt as lightning, his middle seizes, and he is forced to fall to one knee as he doubles over in a breath-stealing spasm of pain and nausea. Gasping, he squeezes his eyes shuts and blindly grabs some of the shale from the ground to crush in his hands, hoping that the pain against his palm will keep him present and sane. The slightest trickle of blood seeps from between his fingers, but Little feels nothing but numbness weighing his limbs down like wet sand.

He wants to scream for the men to come back; he wants to howl until his throat is raw, his voice shredded beyond recognition, perhaps in a fury against himself—and his inability to follow them, to follow their captain, or to follow his own wavering, unsteady self. He wants to yell accusations at the unforgiving Arctic sky, but no one will answer, no ear open in consolation. No Englishman's god walks the shale beside them, and the angels above have turned their backs on the poor and sinful, foolish enough to invade a land unwanted.

With the finality of a hammer nailing shut the lid of his coffin, Little's feet trudge into the ground as he wearily walks back to camp.

He returns in time to see a figure lying prone on the ground, hands clawing and reaching along the shale, head raised mere inches above the sharp rocks.

Little's chest clenches when he recognizes the dark hair and emaciated frame.

He breaks into a run, skidding clumsily to a stop, toppling to his knees, casting his rifle aside, ignoring the discomfort in his joints as he reaches for Jopson.

Jopson is delirious, his breaths uneven and haggard, his splintered voice crying for their captain. Little shushes him, the way he would to a wailing child. He pulls Jopson to his chest, amazed and horrified at how light Jopson is in his arms, how sharp his shoulders and arms have become; he grimaces when he sees how the shale has bloodied Jopson’s hands. Feebly pushing against Little’s arms, Jopson stares into the distance, each weak shove accompanied by moans and incoherent words spilling from Jopson’s lips.

Little sits back on his haunches, one of his arms loped tight around Jopson’s shoulders, the other hand palming the back of Jopson’s head, petting the hair in time with his whispered consolations, gently trying to guide Jopson’s face to his chest, if even so that Little does not have to see those beautiful eyes reduced to such a dull, glassy sheen.

Jopson is anywhere but here, but even with his mind absent, his body is in pain, making him seize and twitch in Little’s arms.

Minutes pass before the shuddering ceases, and Jopson lies limply against Little. Ragged puffs of air still push his lips apart, the hot air of his breath hitting the small span of skin above Little’s collar.

“Easy, now,” Little murmurs, as though to a skittish animal, his hands firm but gentle, the words more for his own benefit than Jopson’s; “let’s get you back to the tent.”

With a grunt, more exertion than he expected, he lifts Jopson into his arms. Little breathes hard as he makes the short trek back to the tent with Jopson cradled against his chest. As frail as Jopson’s body has become while illness cruelly eats at his bones, his weight is iron to Little’s waning strength and deteriorating muscles. The canvas slaps against his shoulders as he pushes past the tent’s opening, and he manages to slide to the ground beside Jopson’s cot before his legs give out. He shrugs the rifle off his shoulder and deposits it on the cot behind him. Jopson is curled tight against him, his face buried into the collar of Little’s coat, his fingers coiled onto the front of Little’s clothing.

Little sighs deeply and runs a hand down Jopson’s back in a manner he hopes Jopson finds comforting.

With a bitter ache, he remembers the last time he held Jopson. It was the night after Carnivale, that hellish and lurid night of catastrophe, a harbinger of the pain still to come. Little lay awake in his berth, his thoughts only of the upcoming walk across the ice, how much he dreaded it, how much he childishly wanted to deny the logic behind abandoning _Terror_ and _Erebus_. Sleep evaded him, as desperately as he wanted and needed the distraction.

Through the deafening din of his thoughts, Little heard the muted scrape of his cabin door opening and closing. The cabin was too dark for him to see the other man’s figure, but Little recognized the footfalls of the captain's steward. There was a suspended pause, hesitance between these two men—who had brushed shoulders, shared glances, confided their concerns, always in reach of one another but neither brave nor foolish enough to culminate their dance of manners and pretense that no one on the ship was privy to but themselves.

Wordlessly, Little held out his hand, and Jopson stepped forward and twined their fingers together before he crawled into the bunk beside Little. Neither said a word, unable to find the things to say that could be heard over the perpetual grind of the ice crushing the ship. They lay in a facsimile of a lovers' embrace, Jopson tucked under Little’s chin, their arms wrapped tight around one another, Jopson trembling and Little’s chest feeling carved out and hollowed.

Too much was left unspoken that night, and in the weeks that followed, the distance between Little and Jopson grew into a chasmic rift, both of them on either side, unable or perhaps unwilling to cross.

Little’s grip on Jopson’s shoulders tighten. His eyes burn, but there are no tears when he blinks. The man in the second cot is dead, and the eyes of the corpse are heavy-lidded and empty, gaping at the ceiling of the tent. Little ponders what he’ll do with the remaining sick men; he thinks of the small pyramid of cans outside each tent and how the rations may last a day or two at most; he thinks of his rifle, of the bullets enough for a single man but no more; he thinks of the captain, who may be dead at this point; he thinks of Jopson, who may be dead tomorrow.

“Edward.”

A single word, exhaled in a draught of choked air, the sigh of a dying man.

Little looks down where Jopson lies on his chest, his cheek pressed against the wool of his great coat, his eyes clear, more so than they have been for days, not since that horrid day the captain and his officers capitulated on their next step, the day that Jopson levelled Little with a glare brimming with fury, his words incredulous as he condemned the cruelty of Little’s suggestion.

Little no longer knows if he stayed behind for loyalty, for fear, or for the guilt wedged beneath his heart by the words of a man whose worth Little holds with more esteem than the man would ever know.

Unbidden, one of Little's arm releases Jopson so that he can cup Jopson's face, his thumb stroking the bruised skin under Jopson's eyes.

“I'm here,” he breathes, not trusting his voice.

Jopson closes his eyes. A tiny, pained moan slides from his throat.

Through his labored breaths; “The captain?”

Little is ashamed at how easy the lie comes; “He’s with the hunting parties.”

“They took the boats.”

Little’s voice hitches. He tries to smooth it down, hoping that Jopson cannot hear the slight warble in his words. “They'll be back soon. Crozier would not leave you.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “He won't leave us. He said as much.”

Jopson moans again, turns his head to press fully into Little, and Little embraces him, offering and taking what comforts they can find, abandoned as they are by God and men in this Arctic wasteland.

There are three Goldner’s tins outside each tent. There are exactly four bullets in his rifle. He took nothing else from the men, and Little does not know yet what his plan will be when the food and the bullets run out. He does not know what he will do when Jopson closes his eyes for the final time and when the tins have vanished and when the captain—

When the captain returns.

Jopson stirs against him, and Little strokes his hair, whispers his name; “Thomas?”

But he has fallen into a fitful slumber, a small wrinkle between his brow, his grip on Little’s coat slack. Little pushes the hair back from his face, lets his fingers linger along Jopson’s forehead, carefully avoiding the patches of raw, scabbed skin. Little lets his head fall back against the cot, his eyes drifting up to the ragged canvas overhead.

The wind catches the tent, fluttering the canvas around the two of them, an agitated sail on the mast of an anchored and broken ship, marooned on shale and frost.

Two men.

Three tins.

Four bullets.

Shale and frost and frost and shale and—

Little stops himself. And instead he repeats like a mantra in his head: _when the captain returns. When the captain returns. When the captain returns._

Jopson whimpers, and Little closes his eyes to rest, if only for a moment.


End file.
